Then again, maybe if I’d been upfront with him or if he’d discovered my secret in a way that didn’t involve an imprint paddle, the conversation might have gone differently.
But I can’t sit around playing thewhat ifgame.
If it wasn’t going to work out, it’s better to know now than to find out six months down the road. Unfortunately, the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier to accept.
The only upside—if such a thing exists—is that Brady will keep my secret. He may not approve of my side hustle, but he knows how important my education is, and he’s not the kind of person to spread rumors or stir the pot out of spite.
It’s a small comfort.
Especially when I can’t even talk to Jenna about the situation. Telling her about Brady would mean telling her about Fangirl, and I’m not about to spill my secret now. Not when Brady reacted so poorly.
Jenna would understand.
Maybe. But I’m not about to put her in a compromising position. She’s an education major too, and the less she knows about Fangirl, the better.
The building is quiet when I enter. No surprise there. It’s nearly six and most classes are finished for the day. I’m meeting with Dr. Barnes’ teaching assistant, Mike McConnell, though he wasn’t exactly forthcoming about the agenda for the meeting.
Nerves coil tight in my belly, my mind going to the worst-case scenario.
Which, given the week I’m having, would be par for the course.
Shit. What if Dr. Barnes is unhappy with the classroom observations I turned in yesterday?
Our last meeting flashes through my mind and I can’t help but remember her promise:Keep up the good work, and if at the end of the semester I’m satisfied with your performance, I’ll consider writing you a letter of recommendation.
It’s only the end of October. It’s too soon for a decision.
Stop worrying. You’ll have your answers soon enough.
It’s sound advice, but easier said than done.
The department office is quiet when I enter. The admin has left for the day, and from the looks of it, so have the teaching staff.
Can you blame them?
Not even a little. If I was a tenured professor, I wouldn’t be holding office hours in the evening either.
I make my way back to the cramped communal office shared by the TAs and find Mike McConnell waiting, his laptop open on the desk.
“Hi.” I force a note of cheer into my voice, though I’m nervous as hell. “Are you ready for me?”
“Yes. Come in.” His dark hair curls over his forehead and his midnight eyes are unreadable as I take a seat across from him, the narrow desk separating us. “Would you mind closing the door?”
My stomach bottoms out.
That can’t be a good sign.
At least he’s respecting your right to privacy.
I’ve never liked it when teachers post grades publicly or point out student’s shortcomings in front of their peers. It’s demeaning and promotes an unnecessarily competitive environment.
I do as he asks, reaching behind me to close the door to the office.
When I turn back to the TA, my pulse is thrumming, and not in a good way.
“I don’t believe in wasting time,” he says, folding his hands on the desk. “So I’ll get right to the point.”
“Okay.” I nod slowly, impressed I squeaked out two whole syllables.
